Clap. Clapboard, sir.
Eben. Mr. Clapboard. Ten years ago I retired from the soap and candle business with a fortune. This boy is my only son; young, impulsive, thoughtless, he has come to the country; his susceptible heart is a target, at which a thousand loving glances will be thrown by the eyes of rural beauties—
Clap. Humbug! There isn’t a female within three miles of the place. This is called “Bachelors’ Paradise.” There’s Jobson’s house, Seymour’s, and mine; specially erected for the convenience of artists, fishermen, and such like gentry, who want a quiet place in the country.
Eben. Is it possible! Then my son’s tender attachment—
Clap. It’s some trick played to frighten you.
Eben. Perhaps it is, but I have my doubts. Who lodges in this house besides my son?
Clap. Well, sir, on the floor below, there’s Mr. Timothy Tinpan, a nice, gentlemanly—tinker.
Eben. A tinker?—(Aside.) Bachelors’ Paradise! (Aloud.) Gentlemanly humbug! Who else?
Clap. The next floor above is occupied by Mr. Peter Picket, a military gentleman, who served his country in the great rebellion.